Emily Greenwood (24 page)

“I’m sliding my hands in front now to touch your breasts, to let them fill my hands.” Her head bobbed backward. She was melting, growing warmer inside with each word he spoke. “I love your breasts. They—” he chuckled roughly, “ah, they torment me with their ripe beauty.”

“James,” she breathed, a note of pleading in her voice. This was growing out of control, becoming a wicked torment. Just as dangerous as having him on the same side with her.

He ignored her and pressed onward down her body, his words stroking her as effectively as his hands would have done. “I’m indulging myself with the rosy buds at the tips of your breasts, rubbing in a circle—” More sounds of rubbing on the other side of the door, and she found herself moving closer to the sound, so that her ear was directly on the other side of his fingers. Her mind was swirling, her eyes were closed, and the sound of her breathing was loud in her ears amid the silence of the dark room.

Then the rubbing changed, no longer a tight circle near her ear but a sound of long, slow descent. “I’m sweeping my hands along your curves, in toward your waist, out to ride along your hips.” Was that his breathing she heard, sounding ragged? She stilled her own breath a moment. It
was
James. She smiled, feeling like a cat, wanting to rub her skin against the door. She slid slowly down, leaning against the door, feeling the vibration of his hands against the wood on the other side as they swept lower too. His voice came from nearby on the other side; he was closer to the floor now too.

“Darling Lis, I’m imagining slipping my hands between your legs, near the top where they meet, where the flesh is soft and satiny.” His voice was more of a grumble now, deeper, catching at words. She felt she had become nothing more than an instrument that he was playing. He was caught up in the music too, but it was her body being possessed by him.

“I’m moving my fingers upward, to where you are silky.” He groaned. “I want to rub you there.” The finger on the door, miraculously already near her ear, took up its slow, sensuous rubbing, and she pressed her ear against the door and absorbed the vibrations, imagining them going to the place he had sent them. She was completely at his mercy, in thrall to him, and she loved it, savored it, even while a nagging inner voice tugged at her attention. Her lips were humming, yearning for his kiss, while every other part of her felt like a stringed instrument, like a cello waiting the master’s touch to bring out its music.

“Stop,” she whispered, so softly that she could barely hear the word herself. Through the door, she thought she felt the heat of him, though perhaps it was her own heat—she was certainly hot enough now.

“Stop,” she whispered again, but more loudly.

“But, sweet, you don’t want me to stop,” he said in a low, breathy voice. “
I
don’t want to stop. You stir me to insanity.” An anguished groan. More rubbing, an almost staccato, free-form shushing sound now, broken from its rhythm in a way that spoke of his own fractured control. “I want you,” he whispered. “I’ll always want you.”

She flew apart.

In the midst of the delirious pleasure, she was suddenly pierced by the deepest sense of loneliness she had ever known. She loved him utterly—to the point that, if she let him, he might even be like a puppeteer controlling her strings. She fell away from the door, coming to rest against the wall at the corner while her mind came back to her.

Seconds passed. Waves of pleasure receded, being replaced with sorrow.

“Felicity? Are you there?”

Her breathing slowed, her mind focused. She stood up and dropped her face into her hands. “Good night, James,” she said, hoping he could not hear the note of despair in her voice. “I’m going to bed.”

He said nothing for a moment. “I… I so want to see your face now. To share with you—” He seemed unfocused himself.

“Good night,” she said again firmly, going over to the bed, the sounds of creaking floorboards announcing her resolve.

“Good night, Lis,” he said reluctantly. “I… know you feel the pull between us. We’ll talk in the morning.”

She got into bed and listened to the sound of his footsteps disappearing down the hallway, presumably to his room.

So he wanted her. He’d always want her, he said. That’s what she was to him, a very desirable woman. The thought filled her with despair. She loved him, loved his energy, his sweetness, his nobility, and yes, his body and his dratted charm. He was a good man, even if he could not see how he put his plans above people in importance. If he loved her, she knew they could have resolved the betrayal, come to an understanding about how deeply they must share themselves with one another. But those were the conversations of lovers, and he didn’t love her. He wanted her, very much she knew, but that was all. And that was not enough, not by a long chalk.

She tossed in the bed sleeplessly for hours, a heavy weight of churning thoughts pressing on her. Before daybreak she’d made her decision. Staying in the same house with James was madness—that was obvious. It was only a matter of time before she completely debased herself, her principles. Before she traded in her spirit for some gilded birdcage. Before she became the acquiescent prop of James Collington, MP, kingmaker, treaty signer, bodega owner, and whatever else he had in his wide sights.

She had to leave and she could not wait. She got up off the bed and rifled through what she had brought with her. In a few minutes she had packed her small collection of personal belongings into a bag. She put an old mourning gown on over the new shift, which it seemed silly and unnecessary to return, though she left everything else James had bought her or Josephine had lent her.

Taking up the bag, she quietly opened her door and crept downstairs. In the kitchen she found the servants eating their breakfast in the early-morning darkness. A half an hour later she was riding into town with the stable boy. He dropped her at the inn, where it was drizzling. Fortunately, she had only twenty minutes to wait until the mail coach arrived and took her up.

James had finished breakfast and had a chance to look at yesterday’s correspondence, have a second cup of tea, and ponder the likelihood of a ride in the morning rain, and still there was no sign of Felicity. He was not sure what he would say to her, or why he felt so urgent about seeing her, but he was becoming irritated by waiting. It occurred to him that perhaps she had gotten up even earlier than he and gone out, or disappeared somewhere in the house; he had assumed himself to be the first up and had not inquired after her. He rang the bell for a servant who, when asked about whether Miss Wilcox had been down for breakfast yet, blinked several times before responding.

“She left, sir.”

“What!” He stood abruptly, though he felt as if he’d just been planted a facer. How could she be gone? With whom? And why, damn it all? “What do you mean, ‘left’?” he demanded.

The servant’s eyes widened with anxiety. He was a new man whom James did not know, but he must certainly have heard gossip that James was the rightful owner of the hall.

“She—she,” he stuttered, then focused himself at a stern look from James, “er, left very early this morning, sir. Got a ride into town with the stable boy, on his way for an errand.”

“Alone?”

The man nodded.

“Blast!” muttered James, his mind beginning to race. What the devil was she up to? “Does anyone know where she’s gone?”

“Well, she asked us about when the mail stopped, sir. Perhaps she took the coach.”

The mail coach. He should have known. And where else would she have gone than back to Tethering, her blasted obsession. If she were to appear at that moment, he thought, he would not know whether to throttle her or embrace her. Definitely both. He sighed in profound exasperation and asked, “Do you know when that is, that the mail stops?”

“Why, about eight o’clock, sir.”

James pulled out his watch and scowled at it. It was after ten. The coach would have come already, but it was slower than a horse and rider. He left the room briskly, intent on going to the stables to get his mount and chase her down. In the hallway, however, he was intercepted by a different servant.

“Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Farnsworth has arrived and begs the honor of your company in the library.”

James arrested his motion. Farnsworth was there. The heir. How James itched to get the man out of his house, gone, done with any connection to Granton Hall and the Collington family’s debts. His mind calculated options. Felicity was already gone, and if he were realistic in his estimates, probably only a few hours from the Tethering estate by now. If he raced after her now, he would likely only catch her just after she had arrived. If that were the case, it would be better to send a message. If he sent a message, he would have time to compose something more careful, whereas if he went in person, well, he could not predict success. Conversations with Felicity never seemed to go as he expected.

He would see Farnsworth and take care of Granton Hall first. Then he would write a careful note to her and send it by messenger. Satisfied, he fetched the bank draft he’d had made up and went to the library.

Farnsworth was sitting at the library’s large desk. In James’s rightful place. James clenched his teeth and reminded himself to be civil. The admiral’s actions in buying up the debt had bought him three more years than he would have had to come up with the money. Though the admiral had not made out badly, since he’d taken as interest all the rents from Granton’s lands. And the admiral had promised him six years, not three, to repay the debt. Apparently, gentlemen’s agreements were only valid so long as both gentlemen were still alive.

“Ah, Mr. Collington, welcome,” said Mr. Farnsworth, standing up. He was a tall, thin man with a pale, egg-like head over which lay a sparse layer of fine, colorless hair. “I am Wallace Farnsworth, as you will have guessed.”

James acknowledged his greeting and got right to the point. “I have come to make the arrangements for the transfer of the necessary funds.”

“Ah,” Farnsworth said, indicating they should sit down. “I see. Well, I will be very straight with you, sir. I would not have been disappointed if you had not. This is a grand place. But,” he continued with a smirk, his eyebrows lifting with a strange glee, “it is in need of quite a bit of attention.”

James bunched up his lips in annoyance but maintained a pleasant tone. “Well, that is perhaps not surprising.” Not surprising, of course, that instead of putting some of the rent returns into the house, the admiral had kept them. James had expected as much. Oh well, he thought, this at least is familiar, an old house in need of funds and attention.

Hardly had he signed over the money to Farnsworth—proceeds from the bodega plus Dover’s large deposit—when a knock sounded. The butler opened the double doors to announce that the steward, who stood beside him, wished to see Mr. Farnsworth.

Farnsworth smiled, his eyes twinkling sharply. “But no, he doesn’t. Mr. Jolett will wish to see Mr. Collington now.”

The butler looked confused, but Mr. Jolett, who’d been steward at Granton Hall for two decades, already wore a look of pleasure.

“Mr. Collington, sir, welcome back,” he said warmly as he entered the room.

James smiled, glad to see the older man was still there. So much might have changed while he was away. But here was Jolett.

“You are a welcome sight, Jolett.”

Mr. Jolett glanced from Farnsworth to James and looked uncomfortable. “As are you, sir,” he replied, sounding unsure.

“It’s all right, Jolett,” said Farnsworth. “The care of Granton has simply changed hands. Reverted back to the Collingtons.” He came out from behind the desk. “You need no longer include me in its affairs.” And with that he chuckled in his odd way and left the room.

James raised his eyebrows and frowned slightly, wondering at Farnsworth’s behavior. He shrugged and made his way over to the desk where, with absolute pleasure, he installed himself in the creaky old chair that had been behind it for years.

“Now then, Jolett,” he began, gesturing for the man to sit down. “How are things here?”

Jolett cleared his throat and hesitated. “Well, ahem, they are… not perhaps as good as they might be. Er, will be, I’m sure, once you have addressed the needs, sir.”

“Right,” agreed James confidently. “And what exactly are, as you see it, the most pressing needs?”

“The most pressing,” Jolett repeated, his eyes lofting toward the ceiling as he seemed to weigh the issue. “Well, probably the roof of the threshing barn, which has been leaking these past two years. But there’s also the problem of the three tenant houses that are still damaged and unusable from the flood in September—”

“September!” cried James. “But that was last year. What about the tenants?”

“Two of the families are staying with neighbors, but one has had troubles and they’ve moved on.”

“And who is farming their land, I am afraid to ask?”

“The other tenants have taken over some, but it’s not easy on them. The farm needs a laboring family.”

“Yes, right,” James said.

“And…”

“And!” said James. “There’s more?”

“Oh, er, I’m afraid, sir, that that’s just the beginning. We’ve got a dead cow poisoning a stream, and the fences are down in a number of places.” Jolett’s voice trailed off as James’s head sunk into his hands.

“Did the admiral do anything, these last three years?”

Jolett cleared his throat. “I’m afraid not, sir. He only came once or twice a year, and he always said he didn’t want to be bothered. Very firm he was about that. And he didn’t leave any money for repairs. He said the staff should all be grateful to be receiving our salaries, seeing as there was no family in residence.”

“I see,” said James. He looked up and ran a hand roughly through his hair. “Right. Let’s go see those tenant houses first, and then we’ll look at the cow and the roof. Just give me a moment to send a message.”

He rang for a servant and quickly penned a note to Felicity, asking tersely, perhaps a little sarcastically, whether she’d had a pleasant journey and arrived safely, but he was frustrated with her. He fidgeted with the quill a few minutes, wanting to say so much more, but he finally sealed up the few lines he’d written and gave it to the servant to send by messenger.

As he walked out of the house with Jolett, James could see where all of the future proceeds from the Bodega Alborada were going to be going, at least for a while. So much for his dreams of solvency. He sighed dispiritedly as they walked out over the fields toward the tenants’ homes, feeling suddenly very tired. And louder than any of the other troubles in his mind was the voice reminding him that Felicity was gone.

***

Two weeks later, James sat at his desk in the library and rubbed his tired eyes dispiritedly as afternoon sunlight streamed in the windows. He hadn’t bothered with shaving the last few days, and his skin was uncomfortable with unaccustomed whiskers. Despite hellishly long days, not enough had been accomplished to make him feel in any way satisfied.

True, the workers’ cottages that had been damaged were being repaired, but it would take at least another week of work before they were habitable. Workmen had been engaged to replace the barn roof. The cow had been pulled, after some head-scratching and muttering by all concerned, from its inaccessible spot in the stream. But in place of these problems many more urgent needs remained, not the least of which was the cellar of the hall, which apparently had been slowly filling with water for some time. The water level was at least three inches deep at the moment and rising, and it was a cause of grave concern.

It seemed to him that all of this would have been so much more bearable if only Felicity were with him. He clenched his teeth whenever he thought of the maddening woman and her foolish flight. He had, as the days passed, thought endlessly over their last conversation, that delirious episode with the door between them. He had felt so deeply connected to her then, and felt sure of her connection to him through the solid wood of the door.

But he also recalled, as his anger cooled with the passing days, her reticence, and that she had said it had nothing to do with Tethering. At the time, he hadn’t listened, intent on his own aims. But in the days since, he’d replayed the scene in his mind countless times, and he was coming to see that her departure might have been as much a flight from him as a flight toward Tethering estate.

He had spent the early morning going over the estate accounts, a depressing business. He now stood in his bedchamber, contemplating sending another message to her, something much different in tone than the notes he’d sent before. The first day’s message had been answered by her father, who simply acknowledged that she had arrived safely. James had then sent another message, carefully addressed to Miss Felicity Wilcox, but she had not replied. It had been a brusque, pushy missive, his attempt to press her into agreeing that they were still engaged. She had not responded, though he had received a mysterious printed invitation to a summer fete being held at Tethering. Now, several days later, he wanted to say, “Come back, Sweet Felicity, I’ve been an ass,” but that seemed too—too—something, he was not sure what. And he didn’t think that would work, anyway. Hadn’t he apologized before, in the carriage, and she had still left? He did not know what she wanted.

Life was not the same without her around. He hadn’t realized how much a part of his days—and nights—she’d become. He’d seen her every day since arriving at Tethering, and she had become familiar to him. He missed her snappy wit, her resourcefulness, her resilience. He missed seeing her smile, seeing her perfectly formed mouth with its delicate, neatly defined philtrum above, contorting in frustration, in impatience with him, in laughter at his teasing. He missed the flowers in her hair and the light in her hazel eyes, a light that he was beginning to think had been lighting his days, making them come alive. And now of course it was gone. He missed all of her, her face and her wavy golden hair, her slender arms, her delirium-inducing bosom, her skin that when he touched it fired his body while it somehow made him feel more deeply at home and at peace than he ever had in his life. Which made no sense, because he was at home now, at his first and last home—Granton Hall. Only strangely, irritatingly, it didn’t feel like home at the moment.

When he tried briefly to explore why, all he could think was that it made no sense. He’d had wonderful times there. A blissful childhood. Until he was twelve, of course, and his parents had died. But even then Granton had still been home—Miranda had come to live with him and Charles. She’d been there when they’d visited from university, a reassuringly familial presence for two boys who did not have much family left. Charles had eventually enmeshed himself in the workings of the state. And James had left for India, to make his fortune with the East India Company. Though, of course, he’d only been there a year before Charles had called him back.

James had seen little of Miranda since they had returned to Granton Hall. When he made it to dinner at night, he often found he was too tired to be much of a companion to her. Glancing out the window now, he saw that she was in the rose garden at the back of the house. He decided to postpone writing the note and seek her out, see how she was enjoying being back at Granton. And perhaps her enthusiasm would help shore up his own flagging eagerness for the work Granton needed.

She was kneeling next to a pale pink rosebush that she was inspecting for pests. She looked almost girlish in a cotton gown and straw hat, a teacup full of ale by her side ready to place the insects in. Miranda, like Felicity, was fond of gardening.

“Here you are, Miranda.”

She glanced up, and her familiar, handsome face held a look of relaxed contentment. “James, dear, how are you? Busy, I know.” She sat against the back of her legs and looked up, pulling her hat brim lower against the sun behind him.

He grinned and sat down on his haunches, his arms resting on his thighs. He had been devilish busy, but that was just as well. Whenever he had a moment that was not full, Felicity took over his mind.